Slumping toward the basin
The waves crash over a child's head
Harder than the cement he was made from
Is the constant abrasive blast
Of sand and salt and jet stream
Of currents from the tide
Slowly buried in the harbor
He defines an ageless time
Of ships and sails and rowing
Into the dawn gleaming a golden shine
He bows with a perfect politeness
To his mother on the hill
Then turns to his father's round about
Waving goodbye as he sinks into the silt
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